


Mutuality

by doctorkaitlyn



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Background Character Death, Beverly Katz Lives, Bonding, Character Study, F/F, Getting Together, Past Molly Graham/Will Graham, Post-Canon, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 15:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7897921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been one thousand, two hundred and fourteen days since Will tumbled out of Molly's life as abruptly as a cauterized artery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mutuality

**Author's Note:**

> Character death is mentioned in this piece, but it isn't Molly or Beverly. If you'd like to know who it is before proceeding, check in the end notes! 
> 
> accompanying **warning** for description of a corpse.

It has been one thousand, two hundred and fourteen days since Will tumbled out of Molly's life as abruptly as a cauterized artery. 

Of course, he's not entirely gone; remnants of his presence linger, like errant blood drops on a pale linoleum floor. There's a pair of his glasses in the drawer on what used to be his side of the bed, the lens dusty but otherwise immaculate. The wedding ring that he made for her with his calloused hands hangs on a coiled chain beside her jewelry box. A half-full bottle of his aftershave, the glass engraved with an image of a ship, is hidden at the back of her medicine cabinet. His fishing gear is tucked into the hall closet, slowly sagging and bending, a gift eventually meant for Wally, a gift he shows no interest in ever claiming. 

And the dogs, of course. Even Winston, who ran away no less than seven times in the weeks after Will failed to come home. 

The rest of Will's things are gone, either carefully packed away in storage or simply removed from the house. She packed up most of the clothes around day five hundred, neatly folded the plaid shirts and worn jeans and heavy wool sweaters into bulging garbage bags, dropped them off at the nearest Goodwill and didn't look back in the mirror. Other things, (scraps of paper, an old cell phone and wallet) the FBI had taken, picked up one day as evidence. 

Evidence of _what_ exactly, Molly still isn't sure. It depends on which narrative she focuses on. At the time of their arrival, the broader FBI wove together a vague tale of Will being abducted by Hannibal Lecter, of the two of them disappearing into the ether somewhere in Maryland. 

Jack Crawford told her nothing. Refused to give her a narrative. Answered none of her calls or emails. 

Freddie Lounds sent her a consolation card, apologizing for her loss and offering a free year's subscription to TattleCrime. The latest issue of the magazine was enclosed. The headline, splashed in lurid red letters from edge to edge, read: _Renowned psychiatrist vanishes! Are the Murder Husbands to blame?_

Molly had burned the magazine, but she appreciated the gesture at honesty, even if it did come from someone whose morals rested at the bottom of a incredibly deep, incredibly dark abyss.

She has long since given up dwelling on the thought that Will might return to her. She no longer lingers at the window, looking out at the rutted lane way, waiting for a glimpse of his dark hair and hunched shoulders. Even if he _did_ miraculously come striding up the drive one day, she thinks that she might not recognize the person residing behind his eyes, no matter the physical resemblance. 

If she _did_ recognize anyone, it would be Hannibal Lecter, lurking just beneath the surface. And in that case, Molly doesn't think it would be in her best interests to let Will reach their front door. 

One thousand, two hundred and fourteen days.

One of these days, she will stop keeping track. 

&. 

One thousand, four hundred and thirty two days after the FBI (and, by extension, Hannibal Lecter), came in the guise of Jack Crawford to pull Will back into the fray for the final time, another FBI agent comes up her steps, the weathered wood creaking warningly underneath her boots. 

Or rather, _ex_ -FBI. It's the second thing Beverly Katz tells her after her name. She asks Molly if she can sit and Molly nods, momentarily wondering where her nearest gun is. She supposes that, if necessary, she could use her egg-encrusted fork as a weapon. 

Beverly stays silent for a few moments, one ankle resting on her opposite knee. The bottom of her boot is covered in gray slush, melting in drips onto the equally gray deck, and there are small rocks embedded into the treads. Her leather jacket doesn't look nearly warm enough for the weather, nor do the dark blue, straight-legged jeans tucked into her boots, but if she's cold, there's no sign of it. Her long black hair, shot through with strands of gray as severe as gun metal, cascades from underneath a slouching beanie that looks like a child knitted it. There's a matching scarf wrapped three times around her throat, the end dangling over her shoulder and down her back. She stays still, hands folded in her lap, staring out at where the creek is sluggishly flowing, covered in thin scrims of ice. 

"I wanted to come by a long time ago," she finally says. "But I wasn't sure if it would be appropriate. If you'd want to talk to another one of us. And I didn't want to talk to the reporters." 

"They've been gone for awhile now," Molly says, relaxing back a little against the quilt covering her wicker chair. Every so often, another one, usually a B-list version of Freddie Lounds, attempts to sneak onto the property, but if they manage to make it to the front door, they get slapped with a trespassing notice. 

(She has only spoken to Alana Bloom twice, never met her in person, but Alana keeps a very good lawyer on retainer and if trespassing charges are too minor for him to handle, well, he never broaches the subject, and neither does Molly.) 

"Did Will ever tell you about me?" Beverly asks. Molly shrugs, folds her still hot coffee mug between her fingers. Will never told her much about any of it; what _did_ come out was late at night, when the lights were off and the fire had burned down and she couldn't make out his face. She remembers him mentioning Beverly's name once or twice in passing, but never in any detail. 

"Not much." 

"Hannibal Lecter tried to kill me." 

"Join the club," Molly snorts derisively. To her surprise, Beverly laughs and breaks out into a wide grin, exposing carefully maintained teeth. 

"It's a pretty exclusive club," she replies. "We should come up with a motto. Something catchy." 

"We could spend our meetings comparing scars," Molly says, stopping herself from reaching up to press against the bullet wound on her shoulder. 

"Physical or mental?" 

"We'll mix it up. Would you like some coffee?"

"That would be great," Beverly says, stretching out both of her legs. "Long drive." 

When Molly returns, Beverly's scarf is in her lap, a curlicue of multicolored wool. When she turns to take the steaming mug, a permanently red slash of flesh comes into view, extending from just under the left side of her jawbone to midway down the column of her throat. Molly doesn't flinch; she simply presses the mug into Beverly's bare hands and sits back down, tugging her chair closer. 

"Hannibal," Molly states, raising an eyebrow.

"Hannibal," Beverly confirms, taking a sip of coffee. "Figured there was no point in hiding what you're all too familiar with."

"Do you think Will is still alive?" Molly asks or, rather, blurts. She knows it's bound to come up at some point, and she would rather tease out Beverly's real reason for visiting sooner rather than later. If she's hoping to draw Molly into some kind of revenge fantasy, some kind of hunting trip across Europe, Molly will let her finish her mug of coffee before kicking her off the property.

"I don't know," Beverly says. "But for his sake, I hope not." 

Molly decides to let her stay. 

&. 

One thousand, six hundred and twelve days after Francis Dolarhyde is found eviscerated in a swamp of his own blood, a manila envelope comes in the mail, postmarked from the office of the Behavioral Science Unit. 

She waits until she gets back to the house. Wally is upstairs in his room, invested in one of his many teenage boy habits, but she still sits facing the stairs, so that he can't sneak up behind her and get a glimpse at any gory details that might be included. 

There's three groups of paper, separated by paper clips and staples. The first is an autopsy report, stamped **CONFIDENTIAL**. There is no name but the age and physical description, right down to each individual scar, matches Will. The list of injuries, old and new, is extensive; broken bones that didn't heal properly, pieces of bullet lodged beneath skin, organs (non-vital ones) missing. 

The second group is photos. Molly only looks at the first. It's a top-down shot of a corpse with dark curls resting across a blue-gray forehead. The eyes are closed and the face is dotted with purple abrasions and cuts. There is a sheet covering most of the body, but Molly can still see the tips of a Y-incision on the chest, the stitches stark black against the pale skin.

Molly shoves the photos back into the envelope and picks up the last piece of paper. It's a letter, written on a single piece of thick cardstock, the heading of Jack Crawford's office extending across the top of the sheet. 

The letter is longer than it has any right to be, and the only part that Molly truly cares about comes towards the end, on the other side of the cream colored paper. 

_I identified the body. It's Will. Hannibal was with him._

She shoves everything back into the envelope, seals it as well as she can, and drops it onto the fire. 

By the time Wally comes downstairs for dinner, any sign that the envelope existed is buried within the smoldering coals. 

&. 

One thousand, six hundred and thirteen days after Will's disappearance-

(Sixteen hours after Molly opens the envelope)

-Molly picks up the phone and calls Beverly. 

"He's dead," she replies as soon as the line clicks. 

"Which one?" Beverly asks, voice piercing through the faint static that always clings to Molly's phone. 

"Both." 

"I'll be there in four hours." The line goes dead.

Beverly lets herself in. The dogs barely make a fuss; Molly has lost count of the number of times she's stopped by since that first day on the porch. Winston trots over to lick Beverly's ungloved hand while the others sniff around the two suitcases that she drags in behind her. She hangs up her jacket by the front door, kicks off her boots, and folds into the chair beside Molly's. Her throat is uncovered and the firelight seems to make the scar glow, making the skin shift from pale pink to red as the flames flicker. 

"Is it true this time?" she asks, glancing over at Molly, automatically moving her hands from her lap when the smallest of the dogs jumps up. 

"Jack Crawford identified him," Molly replies, staring into the flames. They're dangerously high and vividly orange, but she still feels cold, like a lance of ice has pierced her chest. "He was missing organs." 

"I wonder who killed who," Beverly ponders. One of her long fingered hands, still calloused from scalpels and lab equipment, is dangling loosely over the edge of the chair and Molly takes it, fitting their fingers together automatically. It's not the first time it has happened, but never has it felt so necessary to her. 

"Mutually assured destruction," Molly says softly. 

"Yes," Beverly murmurs, squeezing Molly's hand gently. "Of course." 

It is the last thing either of them say that night. 

&. 

One thousand, six hundred and sixty five days after a monster in a human suit escaped from a cage-

(Ninety-two days after Beverly shows up in the middle of the night and holds Molly's hand as she shudders with cold and rage and _relief_ ) 

-Beverly returns, this time with a car packed full of suitcases.

Wally had taken the news astoundingly well; almost apathetically, he'd simply shrugged and asked if there was anything he could do to help. There'd been no confusion, no interrogations about sexuality or replacing Will, no questions about Will at all. 

Molly doesn't think she's ever been more grateful for anything in her life. 

It only takes them a few hours to unpack Beverly's things. They fit like they've been there forever; leather jackets hang from the hand carved pegs in the front hallway, charcoal sketching pencils splay across the living room table, a thick file of newspaper clippings slides onto the bookshelf in the bedroom.

Her clothes easily fill up drawers that haven't been Will's in years. 

After dinner, after Wally's door has closed and music starts floating from underneath it, after the dogs have been fed, they fall into bed together. The sheets, still lightly smelling of pine and wind from being hung to dry, swirl around their heads, bunch beneath their fingers, tent over their bodies. 

Beverly has more scars than Molly, and Molly is already intimately familiar with each of them. The gash across her throat is just the beginning. There's an old mark, snow white against her skin, just below the knob of her wrist, from a slipped scalpel. There's a puckered, pinkish bullet wound on the soft flesh of her hip and a ragged bite mark on the meat of her shoulder. 

Molly knows how they all taste. She knows how they feel under her tongue and fingers, knows which ones to brush over and which ones she can be firmer with. She knows the rest of Beverly's body, the spaces in between, just as well, like she's been studying it for years. 

The feeling is mutual.

&.

Two thousand, three hundred and sixty seven days after the second love of her life leaves her alone in a hospital bed, Molly marries her third.

She wakes up the next day to the very distinctive feeling of her internal clock resetting itself.

One day since the beginning of the next phase of her life.

**Author's Note:**

>  **character death:** Hannibal and Will are mentioned as being dead, having killed each other. 
> 
> as always, I can be found on [tumblr.](http://banshee-cheekbones.tumblr.com/) :)


End file.
